Kiss and Sword
by Delightfully Eccentric
Summary: (Charlie/Zoey) Bartlet's baby girl is in trouble. Yes, the old-fashioned kind.


1 DISCLAIMER: The West Wing characters and histories aren't mine and are not used for profit. Gosh, it's hard to say that with a straight face.  
  
  
  
2 Kiss and Sword  
  
I wonder if he loves me.  
  
I lie on my bed with my feet against the wall like I promised my mom I wouldn't and I wonder if he really loves me.  
  
The floor's littered with English notes.  
  
I'm good at note-taking; I learned shorthand as I was growing up from various secretaries of my father's. Trouble is I never look at them again once I've taken them. I wish to God that was the only trouble right now.  
  
Charlie's written me the odd note when our schedules have clashed (which happens a lot more often than the note-writing). We've never really gone in for love letters though – we both get too much hate mail to be able to look at a letter without a little knot of fear forming in the back of the throat.  
  
Of course they don't let me see it. They're very good at shielding me from that, just like they are at shielding me from everything.  
  
I was sneaking up on him one day – I love to do that: he pretends to be all mad, then he can't help laughing with me. Only this time I wasn't laughing.  
  
He was reading a letter.  
  
It was – I can't describe it. They'd never let me see anything like that before. For the first time I could see why.  
  
I didn't realise how sheltered I was until the shield slipped.  
  
After the hysteria settled I was so angry – but not at the writer of the letter.  
  
I was angry with my boyfriend, the one they tried to kill because of me.  
  
I was furious because he'd tried to shelter me too. Because he hadn't shared what he was going through.  
  
Neither of us meant to get in so deep. So deep in danger or in each other.  
  
But circumstances dictated that we had to get in deep or get out.  
  
"Zoey?"  
  
One of the Secret Service agents is at the door. I've propped a chair under the handle to avoid being disturbed.  
  
"I'm fine!" I call, hoping she won't push it.  
  
I'm not sharing with him right now either.  
  
On top of being stupid I'm also being a hypocrite. I get so mad over him not talking things through with me. He always tries to protect me from what he's feeling. Now I'm trying to protect myself by not sharing with him.  
  
If I'm right, the entire world's going to know about it soon enough.  
  
I roll over onto my stomach and try very hard not to have that thought.  
  
The page I've written this is headed: "Sociability and Solicitude: The Writings of Oscar Wilde".  
  
How can I dissect some stupid old book when I might be pregnant?  
  
My father was shot because I dated Charlie.  
  
I can't describe how afraid I am of what will happen if this is true.  
  
Even if I'm not, it will never be plain sailing.  
  
My father was shot because I dated Charlie.  
  
Charlie won't talk to me about that, ever.  
  
It could happen again.  
  
We're surrounded by armed guards but we were surrounded by armed guards then too.  
  
My father still got shot. Josh Lyman, the big brother I never had, was almost killed.  
  
Next time someone might kill my father, or my mother, or my boyfriend. Or my child.  
  
Hatred isn't over. I could still end up dead for loving Charlie.  
  
Oh my. I said I loved him. I didn't know I was going to say that. I wonder if he loves me.  
  
He could kill me with a kiss.  
  
We can't go to a restaurant because the diners at the next table might open fire on us.  
  
In some countries abortion is illegal unless continuing the pregnancy puts the mother's life at risk. I wonder if this situation counts.  
  
I should have thought of all this before.  
  
That night – feels like another lifetime now – when we'd just met and we all went to the bar and those guys started hassling me, I was so frightened.  
  
And Charlie got right in there, putting himself in danger. For me.  
  
It would have turned any girl's head.  
  
I never meant to get in this deep.  
  
I never meant to fall in love with him.  
  
I never meant for the condom to burst.  
  
I punch my pillow and tear up what I've written. True or not, it can't be committed to paper.  
  
The agent's back at the door again. I pull the chair down and open it.  
  
I brattishly announce that I'd appreciate some privacy.  
  
Please tell me it's not my hormones that are making me grumpy.  
  
She shrugs but, satisfied I'm not dead or in the clutches of a criminal mastermind, leaves.  
  
See? How am I going to find out if I have anything to tell Charlie? It's not like I can just pop to the drugstore like a normal person. And my doctor is my mother!  
  
It's been hard even covering up the vomiting. I don't know if it's caused by stress or something more disastrous.  
  
That's another thing, the stress. That's not good for the baby – if there is one.  
  
I could go public, turn the world against my family, and me and lose the baby anyway.  
  
Sometimes I just want to run, run far away from the District of Colombia and from being the President's daughter.  
  
I never asked to be a part of this.  
  
My niece Annie tried to run away once. She didn't make it a block before the Secret Service brought her back but she gave it a damn good try.  
  
Annie's still bitter about that incident. She wasn't allowed to go to some kid's birthday party because his father had been arrested for his part in a protest outside an animal research laboratory – the President's family couldn't be seen to endorse that kind of protest group.  
  
It would have been the first party Annie had attended at which boys had been present. She'd never forgiven Daddy for that.  
  
Now what everyone's thinking and a lot of people are saying is that the President's family shouldn't be seen to endorse inter-racial romance.  
  
It's not just Klu Klux Klan types that are out to get us. I once found out that I have quite a volume of hate mail filtering through the Secret Service from black people.  
  
My parents were so disappointed when Liz was pregnant with Annie. They supported her, of course, but they were devastated. She was still in her teens too.  
  
But no one had heard of Josiah Bartlet then, and certainly no one had heard of Karl Robinson, Liz's deadbeat boyfriend who promptly left town upon hearing the news and hasn't been heard from since.  
  
If I'm pregnant Charlie won't leave town. My parents will still be devastated, especially when it hits the news and they hear us all being torn to shreds across the world.  
  
No one wants us to be together.  
  
Except me.  
  
I wonder if he really loves me.  
  
I call him. He's busy, as usual. He'll call me back when he can take a break.  
  
Sometimes I wish I could be more like the rest of my family.  
  
Mom, Dad, Ellie, even Annie to an extent – they've all got something I haven't. Charlie has it too. I wouldn't know how to describe it – a fighting gene, perhaps?  
  
All I know is that they're all much tougher than me. Maybe that's their fault for trying to shelter me all these years, or maybe that's why they've tried to shelter me.  
  
They couldn't protect me from myself.  
  
They couldn't stop me from falling in love with a wonderful, wonderful man who's incredibly dangerous for me to know.  
  
They couldn't stop me from making my latest and biggest mistake. I run my hand around the inside of the waistband of my pants. It doesn't feel possible that a person could be in there.  
  
Another wave of nausea overcomes me, I can only hope due to the sheer terror I'm feeling. I manage to put the stereo on on my way to the bathroom. It drowns out my retching but any minute now my protection will be along to complain about my choice of music.  
  
I'm afraid I didn't have time to change the CD before I started spewing my guts out.  
  
The phone chooses this precise moment to ring.  
  
Just as well the music's already on. I don't like the thought of people listening to my conversations with my boyfriend, even though I know all my calls are probably being taped anyway.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Zoey? You okay?"  
  
I clear my throat and try hard to sound normal.  
  
"Yeah, fine. How's work?"  
  
"You know, same old chaos. I only have a minute."  
  
"Oh."  
  
I don't know why I'm disappointed; this just gives me another excuse not to tell him.  
  
"So what were you calling for before?"  
  
My mind draws a complete blank.  
  
"Nothing. I – uh – I just... I love you."  
  
He's laughing! I can hear him laughing... What does that mean?!  
  
"I love you too, baby."  
  
Does he really? Or is he being funny?  
  
"Charlie..."  
  
"Listen, are you sure you're okay? Cause you don't sound so great."  
  
Well, at least he's concerned.  
  
"I'm fine, Charlie. I just wish you were here is all."  
  
"I'm sorry, Zoey, your father's on his way. I'm going to have to run."  
  
"Oh. Okay. See you tonight maybe?"  
  
"Maybe. Oh, and Zoey?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"I really do love you."  
  
He's hung up and I'm left wondering if I've just been blown off or given a promise of eternal happiness.  
  
The feeling in my stomach indicates that the latter is somewhat unlikely.  
  
I wonder how I could have been so stupid.  
  
I've long been smart enough to know that I'm not as smart as my parents. Or my boyfriend.  
  
I've just never thought that it was me that was dumb; I just thought it was them that were brilliant.  
  
I've never in my life felt as stupid as I do now.  
  
I should have asked my mom for the morning after pill. As a Catholic she disapproves but as a doctor she tolerates it.  
  
She'd have taken my head off but she'd have saved me from this.  
  
Sometimes I wonder, when Deena's finished high school and Charlie finally gets to go to college, will he realise I'm not smart enough for him?  
  
I don't really think it'll be that though, that does it in the end.  
  
He already knows what I am and claims to love me for it.  
  
If the worst is true, will he blame me? Or will he beat himself up over it and keep it all inside like always?  
  
Meanwhile I'm back in the bathroom crying alone again.  
  
How did I let this happen?  
  
How can I possibly get a pregnancy test without someone finding out? I can't ask a friend. Money's a powerful commodity; there's no one I can be sure won't tell the press.  
  
If Gina's personal leave had come at any other time maybe I'd have risked telling her. She might have picked up a kit for me without telling my parents, at least until we knew the results.  
  
But she's not around this week and I don't trust any of the agents who are. It'd get back to my father.  
  
It finally strikes me.  
  
I'll have to tell Charlie.  
  
I'll tell him my fears, get at least one thing out in the open between us, swear him to secrecy and tell him to ask Deena to pick up a test at a drugstore. No one knows her face and she'll understand how important it is to keep her mouth shut. Her mother was shot dead, and then madmen tried to kill her brother. The kid's wise beyond her years.  
  
Actually, she and Annie would get on.  
  
Now that I have a plan of action I feel almost light-hearted.  
  
It felt wrong to keep this from him anyway.  
  
That stupid agent sticks her head round the door again.  
  
"Can't you play some real music, Zo?"  
  
Where does she get off? I'm so sick of these people following me about everywhere, pretending to be my friends.  
  
I wonder if I have a child if its protection will be as annoying as mine.  
  
Another clutch of agents to add to every guest list. Family gatherings have been a blast since Daddy was elected; nobody wants to chat in front of these complete strangers.  
  
I start moving around, picking up my notes. For some reason it feels like the place should be tidy when I tell him.  
  
The rock music I'll have to play to drown out the conversation won't add to the atmosphere, but that's the least of the problems of being my father's daughter.  
  
Ask Annie and she'll tell you it's no picnic being his granddaughter either.  
  
If it exists, what kind of life is this baby going to have?  
  
What have I done?  
  
I look at Charlie's picture beside my bed and correct myself. What have we done?  
  
I love him.  
  
I'm almost sure he loves me.  
  
Thank God we're in this together, or will be as soon as I've told him.  
  
But then if we weren't together all of this would vanish.  
  
That's scary too.  
  
The possibility of having none of this: no Charlie; no boyfriend problems to complain about; no extra-strong bonds that come from going through hell together; no knowing that all this craziness, it's all because the men in my life are too damn honourable for their own good.  
  
He must love me.  
  
He does love me.  
  
I pull my head back from the toilet for the dozenth time and hope that whatever happens that's going to be enough.  
  
  
  
THE END  
  
  
  
First posted June 2001 


End file.
